


Never Let You Fall

by Morrigan



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: F/F, Femdom, Femslash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-28
Updated: 2011-06-28
Packaged: 2017-10-20 19:35:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/216370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morrigan/pseuds/Morrigan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Willow is learning about Tara - and herself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never Let You Fall

She is holding you, right at the edge of the precipice, and she will not let you fall.

No matter how much you beg.

Her hands are doing indescribable things, driving animal grunts from deep inside your chest. You cannot see her, but you do not need to. You know how she will look, right now, her hair dampened with the sweat of passion, her eyes darkened to indigo with intent and focus. You know her skin is flushed, its normal pale tone ruddied with effort. You could paint her from memory, every line and curve burned into your memory in strokes of ochre and cream, heat and the icy control you still cannot fathom.

 

The first time she did this, you were unable to believe it, much less understand.

You were obsessed with some school problem, what you can't even remember now, but your inability to find the solution was driving your temper high enough to match the stereotype you had hated all your life. She was the only one who ever saw that temper in you, the only one you trusted to not make some sarcastic comment about natural redheads.

Somewhere deep down you also thought she would forgive you anything, and so you did not worry about snapping at her when she interrupted your train of thought.

You learned a lot about her that day.

She took away your books, closing them with a precision that bordered on grace. Your protests were met with silence, even her eyes avoiding yours until your books, your binder and your pens were neatly stowed in your backpack, the bag itself closed and moved to its place by the desk.

Only then did she turn to you, and the look in her eyes stole the breath away from the tirade you were building. They burned with something less than anger, but more than passion, and one glance from them filled you with confusion and a sneaking spark of desire. She crossed the few paces between you and leaned down to slide gentle hands into yours. With firm pressure, she drew you to your feet, and kissed you.

Of course, kiss was a mild, inadequate word for what her lips and teeth and tongue did to yours in that moment.

You had always loved her lips, the soft fullness, but it was not until that day that you tasted the steel beneath the velvet. She did not merely kiss you – she took your mouth with hers, each motion an assertion, a demand, a claim. She swallowed the moan you could not suppress, and with it your will. All you could do in the moment was surrender.

It was obvious that she felt it. She drew back, and before a question could take shape on your tongue, she pressed one slim finger to your lips, and shook her head. You simply stood there, stunned, as she undressed you, and when she grasped your shoulders and turned you toward the bed, you moved as she guided you.

You found yourself on your back, the cotton sheets cool under your bare skin as her clothed form hovered over you. Your hands she cradled in her own, and with an inexorable surety, clasped them on the plain oak headboard. Her voice was low and steady as her eyes seared into yours.

“Keep your hands there. If you move them, I'll stop.”

She waited for some response. You opened your mouth to speak, to question, only to find your mouth gone dry, your tongue parched with nervous anticipation. Lips closing of their own accord, you swallowed convulsively, and simply nodded.

If this were a story, you would remember every thing she did to you that afternoon. You would replay every caress, every lick and bite and trail of fingernails on skin through your memory, savoring each gasp and sigh and rock of your hips. But this is memory, not ink and wood-pulp, so what you remember is how you felt.

You remember the rush of feelings. Desire, thick on your skin like syrup, delicious and weighing down your limbs. The way some of her touches were light enough to almost tickle, and others felt deep enough to draw your bones through your flesh. You know she used her hands, lips, teeth, and that glorious tongue, but you could not say you know exactly when she bit you, or where she licked, or of it was her fingers or her lips that pulled your nipple hard enough to make you cry out. The tingling excitement of not knowing what came next, the savory edge brought by a hint of fear.

The sounds stay in your mind. The soft shushing of her clothes against the sheets as she moved over and around you, the creak and whine of the bed as shifting weight stretched the springs. The muffled pop as she pulled away from suckled skin. And through and over it all, your own cries, from needy whimpers to groans pulled from the deepest recesses of your soul.

You do remember watching her head dip between your legs, for you had waited and waited for that. You had begged for it more than once, and she had only smiled and said, “Not yet.” So you have a very clear picture of her finally nibbling her way down your breasts and belly, lingering over the streaks from her fingernails, probing with her tongue at the rising marks of her suckling. You remember holding your breath, willing her, begging her silently to please taste you, to finally let you come.

And she did begin to taste you, licking in long slow strokes, ignoring the jerk of your hips as you tried to get her tongue where you needed it most. She was teasing still, driving you mad with the deliberation of her movements, when you made the mistake.

You stretched your fingers from their grip on the headboard, and brought your hand down to slide it into her hair.

She stopped.

Silent again, she moved up to look into your eyes. A smile that balanced between sadness and wry commiseration, and she cupped your cheek in one damp palm. She kissed you, softly, the steel gone as if it had never existed, and got up.

That, you remember very clearly. She rose from the bed, casually went to the sink, washed her hands and face, and proceeded to make herself comfortable in the easy chair. Incredulous, you watched her pick up her notebook and another sheaf of papers, and begin to study.

When you questioned her in shock and rising anger, she merely raised one eyebrow and calmly answered, “I said that if you moved your hands, I would stop. I meant it.” She refused to say more on the subject, no matter how much you nudged and asked and demanded answers. You fumed for a while, before finally settling back into your own work.

When she left that evening for a seminar, you packed away your school things and retired back to the bed. Your own hands roamed your body for the first time since she had become yours, and you hers. It felt naughty, furtive, this taking for yourself pleasure she had denied you. And you did take pleasure in your own touch, and you did finally tip over the edge into climax.

It wasn't enough. It was empty, devoid of the languorous afterglow that you had become accustomed to. Images from that afternoon kept running through your mind, and the pleasure you had given yourself was insignificant in comparison to the need that her actions had awakened.

You turned it over in your mind, trying to think your way through it. Nothing that had happened fit with anything you understood about her, about the relationship between you. You had always been the, for lack of a better term, dominant partner. She had been so shy when you met, so very unsure of herself. You had groomed her, gently brought her into your world, your circle of friends. You had been strong for and with her, building yourself into a bulwark to shield her from the world.

And then, that afternoon she had shown you a part of her that you hadn't known existed. A strong, unyielding, confident woman that took what she wanted on her own terms, knowing that it was offered freely. Yet when those terms were violated, she simply stopped, and the steel retreated back beneath the velvet, undetectable.

You fell asleep still mulling it over, before she returned that night.

The rest of that week went on as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. The two of you went on patrol with Buffy, to the Bronze with Xander and Anya, pored over musty texts at Giles' apartment. Still she would not speak of it, only smiling slightly and shaking her head whenever you brought it up. Your lovemaking was normal, well, normal for the two of you, with all its tender passion and unquenched urgency.

You finally pushed it to the back of your mind out of sheer frustration. You weren't getting any answers, and probing it inside your own mind wasn't getting you any closer to understanding. So you shrugged it off as a weird mood, maybe something hormonal that had taken her with a wild impulse and faded away.

 

This rushes through your mind as you rock on your knees, your hands clenched tight on the edge of the low stone wall before you. She is driving into you, her fingers fluttering deep within, just enough to make you wild. The slick sounds of her hand delving into you make a primal harmony with your guttural moans and her harsh breathing above you. You can feel the shift and slide of her, the raw need rising within, and you struggle to just hold on.

 

It was weeks later that you finally began to understand. Again, you had snapped in frustration. This time it wasn't at her, but at Xander, when he questioned the safety of a spell you suggested. She quietly gathered her bag and yours, told the gang that the two of you were calling it a night, and led you, again in silence, back to the dorm.

You hadn't balked. Her eyes had pierced you once more with that mixture of power and control, and you found yourself too aroused to even think of objecting. When she brought you through the dorm, into that space you now shared, she again undressed you in silence. Again, she lay you back upon cool sheets, and guided your hands to the headboard.

This time, you did not let go.

You writhed under her as she touched and teased. Her hands and mouth drew rivers of sensation from your body, and you gave them to her gladly. Your back arching, sobbing whimpers erupting from your throat, you almost dropped your arms a few times, nearly forgot her one instruction. And then the memory of her leaving you, naked and wanting, would rise behind your eyes, and you would clamp your hands harder, seeking to drive your fingers into the oak.

When she finally let you come, when her tongue danced across your clit and flung you into orgasm, you found yourself weeping, unbridled emotion streaming from your eyes and gasped out in heaving cries. She held you then, gently loosening your fingers from their grip, bringing your arms up around her neck. You clung there, wracked with emotion you had not known you were suppressing, wailing it into her shoulder, into the only person you now knew was strong enough to take it.

As you began to calm, she whispered to you, soothing words at first. Then came the beginnings of an explanation. “You're trying to control too much, sweetie. It's not good for you. It's killing you, and if you keep it up, it's going to kill our relationship.” She gently rubbed your cheek with her thumb, smoothing away a few stray tears that had trickled onto your cheek. “I'm not going to let that happen. You have to learn the difference between controlling yourself, and controlling everything and everyone else.”

It hit you like a sucker punch, the way you had been trying to control every situation since Oz left. Countless scenes flashed through your mind in which you had tried to impose yourself on people or events around you, building walls and patterns to keep your heart safe. Even her. You had even tried to mold her into someone who would never, could never hurt you by moving outside your expectations.

Your sobs began again, this time interspersed with abject, fearful apologies. She held you, and rocked you, and comforted you, and finally you fell asleep in her arms, wrapped in her forgiveness and the trust that she would keep you safe from yourself.

 

You are biting your lip to keep from screaming into the night. Your jeans are bunched around your ankles, your knees spread as wide as they can be with the denim restricting you. The grass tickles your legs as you move for her, the cool air of midnight brushes tiny shivers over your exposed ass as she takes everything you are and gives it back to you, renewed. Her every thrust, every slip of fingers over engorged nerves brings you back to who you are, who you need to be, for her, for yourself. Her voice, low and breathy, reminds you of just how close you came to crossing the line again.

Somehow, she feels it when the lesson has taken, and her touch takes on a new urgency. Her fingers curl inside you, dragging across the place she has been only teasing until now. Her thumb presses into your clit, rubbing in circles with each thrust. You can feel the wave rising, the tension that has coiled low in your belly intensifying. Your fingers tighten even further, and the scrape of your skin on the stone is the last thing you feel before climax flashes over you, and you scream her name into the darkness.

You are barely conscious as she gently withdraws her hand from your body. Carefully, slowly, she moves you, fastening your clothes before sitting down on the grass, and drawing your trembling body into her lap. Rocking slowly, she cradles you against her, and murmurs into your hair, “I love you, Willow.”

Tara is holding you, keeping you safe from yourself, and she will never let you fall.

Not even if you beg.


End file.
